Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

Five days had passed since Lyriq and his master arrived in Carcel.

Every day since, Lyriq trained with fire in his blood—but his nights were spent learning.

Carcel wasn't just a random subkingdom. It was a kingdom forged by war.

Its ruler, Naron Carcel, was once a war hero. A knight who had led the Meredican forces during the brutal campaign against the twin nations of Meredia. His valor, tactics, and sacrifices turned the tide of the conflict—and for that, he wasn't just honored.

He was crowned king.A subkingdom—his to rule.

Lyriq had frozen when he first heard that.

A knight, rewarded with a crown?

He had given everything in his past life as a knight—and was discarded like ash. But here, in Meredica, a man like him could rise to become a king.

His curiosity grew.

Meredica wasn't just a vast empire. It was an intricate, living war machine.There were 52 subkingdoms, divided neatly into 13 regions across the North, South, East, and West.

Each quadrant was commanded by a high general, and all reported directly to Sovon Mastice—the Supreme Leader of Meredica.

Every sector had its own hierarchy—commanders for war, for medicine, for statecraft.

A country of blades and brilliance.

And among them… was Augustis Volcaro.The swordsman above all swordsmen.The man who sat not just above Meredica—but above the world.

Lyriq's thoughts churned like a storm.

If becoming the best in Meredica means defeating warriors from 52 subkingdoms…And that still isn't enough to reach Augustis…Then what am I chasing?

He gritted his teeth.

No. I don't care how high the mountain is.Even if my master is an ant in this world—Even if I'm a speck—I'll climb.

Every day, his sword rang against the wind.Every second, he trained.

Because somewhere, someone is sleeping while I'm swinging.And I'll surpass them.One second at a time.

On the fifth night, his master stood in the courtyard as Lyriq's blade cut the air again and again.

"Your form's cleaner," he said. "Your body's flexible now. But training alone won't prepare you."

Lyriq paused. Sweat dripped from his jawline.

"In battle," his master continued, "your enemy won't follow patterns. They'll lie. They'll bait. They'll break rhythm."

"You don't have strength yet. So you'll need deception. Trickery. Don't be ashamed of it."

"Some call it cowardice. I call it survival. If a swordsman loses because he fell for a trick, that's not your shame—it's his."

Lyriq's brow furrowed.It wasn't just about swords. It was about war.

Then, the man dropped the next blow:

"That's why we're here. Not just to train."

"There's a local swordsman competition held here in Carcel. Open only to those under 20—both men and women. A rite of fire for the young."

Lyriq's heart thudded.

"Two of King Naron Carcel's sons will be participating," his master said. "Both prodigies. Both experienced."

"You? You're neither. You haven't seen real battle. You have no reputation. No advantage. No mercy."

"But… that also means you've got nothing to lose."

"Remember this: on any given day—anyone can be beaten."

"But only if you're sharp. If you falter—if you're sluggish, careless, or stupid—you'll be humiliated."

His master turned, the decision already made.

"Enough talking. Let's go register."

Lyriq didn't move right away.

His fingers curled tight around his sword hilt.

This was it.

His first real step into the world of swordsmen.His first chance to be seen—not as a forgotten shadow, but as a storm on the rise.

He followed, silent—but burning.